Inner nightmare
by Chiisana Minako
Summary: Sometimes we don't know we are capable of something until we do it. Lisbon didn't think she would ever change her mind, until she did. Rated T for swearing and violence, spoilers for 2x08. Jane/Lisbon. - COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Inner nightmare –by Chiisana Minako.**

**AN:** Hello you all :D! This is my entry for Jello-forever May challenge: Empty promises. First non-oneshot in years! (It'll probably be just a two-shot but still xD). This fic is sort of out of my comfort zone, darker, but I'm trying something new.

I wanted to thank Yaba for being such a sweetie while betaing, and dedicate this to my amazing England girls, Tromana and Boutondor *hugs*

I hope you like it : )

* * *

Jane had nightmares. With the details of his family tragedy common knowledge, even if Jane himself never admitted to anyone that he had horrible dreams, most people could guess that he probably started having them shortly after. That they still plagued his unconscious.

Lisbon had nightmares occasionally, not as often as she did when she was growing up. During her adult life, they were often triggered by stress, when her will power wasn't enough to calm her fears or stop her mind from reflecting on not so happy memories.

Now, the night dark illusions of her mind had another reason. She hadn't picked up on what was bugging her until she saw her calendar once again. Sam Bosco would have been 49 that day.

_If he was still alive. _

Even if she wanted to just forget about it, put it in the back of her mind with all the rest of the painful memories, it was like _the world_ didn't want her to, even with silly little things. For instance, Rigsby had the meatball sub from Cornaro's for lunch, the same sandwich Bosco stole from her a day before he was shot.

As she picked up on a detail that small, a much more trained mind took note of the barely perceptible twitch of her eyebrow when she looked at the sandwich's wrapping. Lisbon might have known at some point, that his blue eyes were glued to her; following her every movement, as though he knew something was wrong. Of course he knew, _he always knew._

It wasn't that hard to conclude; after all, she usually didn't skip lunch unless she was too busy interviewing suspects and following leads, it all became so hectic then she just didn't remember she had to eat.

And they had just closed a case that morning.

.

.

_Her hands were red. _

_Of course they were; they had been in contact with blood. So much blood. _

_The same blood the wall was painted with…and that fucking creepy smiley. It didn't matter how long she washed her hands in the bathroom, it was never enough. She scrubbed and scrubbed, but her fingers remained crimson red. It took her a while to realize her knuckles were bleeding, and she couldn't stop it. The numb feeling went away, replaced by sharp pain, cutting on her skin. She looked at herself in the mirror, realizing she was crying, and behind her…_

… _there was another red smiley._

Lisbon sat up suddenly and her eyes shot open immediately, getting a hold of her surroundings; her living room, her couch. It was dark now… when did she fall asleep? In a tired gesture, she rubbed her eyes and found out how damp her cheeks were, how sore her eyes felt. Crying in her sleep, it had been a while.

As she got up from the couch and into her little kitchen, she wondered when _she_ was the one trapped in the memories of things that couldn't be changed (no matter how much she wanted them to). When her eyes got watery again, she didn't stop them, just stared at her kettle, waiting for it to boil the water. Salty droplets fell to the floor, never to be seen again, and she mumbled something even she couldn't hear. If she did, Lisbon feared she might keep her word.

"_I'll let you kill him."_

_.  
_

.

Next time she saw Jane, she couldn't look him in the eye. Her own whispered words kept mocking her, how much of a hypocrite she was. But she pushed it away; after all, it wasn't like she had kept her word.

_Yet._

And of course, if Jane was denied something, he worked even harder to get it. So he made a point of staring at Lisbon until she caved and looked at him. At first, he flashed his most charming smile, but as the day progressed, every time he succeeded they just kept eye contact for longer. He was kind of expecting her to roll her eyes, to glare at him, maybe even to show a hint of a smile at his grinning, but she just looked at him with her deep, crystal green eyes; as if trying to communicate something.

Then he remembered he wasn't really a psychic.

.

.

It was evident, clearer than water. If Jane believed he had a real, _solid_ lead on Red John's location, he would go by himself.

And so, he did.

First he had to trick Lisbon, which didn't go exactly as planned. She was a lot smarter than he sometimes assumed, not that he thought she wasn't intelligent, because she was, but this was way beyond that. It was for her sake, really.

Jane remembered her words perfectly, the ones she threw at him in that cold dark room, when they rescued Maya Plaskett, who had been kidnapped. He didn't want Lisbon to be sad, to be disappointed, to have naïve and sweet but ultimately false hopes. His determination to make Red John pay for what he did ran way deeper than anything else, and came before anyone he met.

It was all decided before he met Lisbon, he couldn't change it _for her._

(Even if he wished he could, just... sometimes).

His hand pushed an old-looking wooden door, trying to be as careful as he could be, not because Lisbon told him so repeatedly, but because he didn't want to alert Red John of his presence.

Too bad the serial killer already knew the blond would be coming.

Something heavy hit Jane on the back of his head unexpectedly, making him fall to the floor, losing consciousness.

.

.

Piercing blue eyes: that's the first image Jane could see when he woke up, dizzy, and reddish hair, maybe as some kind of twisted joke. His hands handcuffed behind his back to a chair, Jane knew the red headed man was aware that Jane could get out of them. So what was the point? Was it another scheme, a test? Also, the fact that Red John would let him see his face indicated either that he wasn't the real one, or that he grew tired of playing this game with him. It had been seven years of taunting him...

When his conscience returned completely, he was picking the handcuffs and getting himself free, just to see the other man smile and punch him harshly in the face, making him fall back onto the chair again, lower lip bleeding.

A demonstration of power; clearly; the taller man was much stronger than Jane. That made things much more amusing for the serial killer. Maybe for both of them. Sure the blond didn't expect this to be easy, did he? But he did look kind of defeated. This early in the game? Not acceptable.

His laughter was as creepy as the enigmatic smileys he liked to paint in the wall above his works, and Jane felt something soft landing in his lap. His eyes almost got watery, almost. But the rage was winning the battle against the sorrow. He charged against Red John.

His daughter's headband, stained with blood, gripped tightly in his fist.

No words were spoken, there was no need to. As much adrenaline Jane had in his system, it wasn't enough to overpower the trained murderer in the long run. A few punches here and there, but nothing major. Of course not. Red John would concede the poor man a few blows to boost his ego.

.

.

Especially if you got feelings in the way, fighting skills became even messier. A punch to the stomach had his untalented opponent on his knees, trying not to completely fall. The red head kicked him without mercy and took out a knife from one of his boots, thinking his plan over. He was getting bored; maybe he should just kill the bruised, coughing blond in front of him. At first he thought if Jane ended up killing him, that'd just mean that he succeeded in totally ruining his life; no family, losing friends, loved ones; making them hate him, and even losing freedom. The serial killer didn't care much for life –that was evident to anyone who witnessed his art. Even though he had a higher appreciation for his own, he was more than willing to die to complete his masterpiece.

It would have been a lot better if he had managed to kill the lovely Agent Lisbon first, but for some reason he hadn't been able to. Two failed attempts, but no one had to know about that. He _had _to be thought as infallible. Maybe Jane wasn't worth it, maybe it'd be better just to finish him off. It had started to go downhill recently, the seemingly unflappable blond brought more troubles than amusements as of late, but that'd be too easy.

Oh well. Better to quit when you're ahead.

The knife felt strong in his hand, powerful, familiar; and as he stepped closer to the bleeding man at his feet, the anticipation only grew, threatening to overcome him as he raised the blade over his next victim. He had killed so many times before, had taken pleasure in both the act and the fear permeating the air around his chosen target, but watching Patrick Jane slowly resign to his fate gave him a thrill like no other. His sweetest victory yet.

Red John allowed himself a moment to indulge in the defeat of his _favorite_ adversary, but that became his greatest mistake, because before he could strike, the knife slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor as one bullet pierced his right leg and then another his right one.

It took four shots, two in each leg, to make him fall. The quick footsteps let both men know it was Lisbon approaching.

Jane picked up the knife, knowing it was now or never. Finally he could taste his revenge, the reason he got up every morning. He cut his own fingers by being too hasty in picking the sharp instrument; he regretted he couldn't give the bastard a slow death, because it would have to be a quick one due to lack of time. He could see Red John's throat being cut open already.

If only.

Three bullets connected with the blonde's abdomen, and he was shoved to the floor once again, feeling a sharp pain. It was hard to breathe, he couldn't get up. He could feel Lisbon's presence, somehow.

Did she just...?

A loud thump echoed or at least that was what he heard, signs of struggle. Lisbon hitting Red John with the back of her gun, getting a punch in the face in the process, but with the help of Cho, she succeeded in getting the murderer unconscious. Back-up was already there, helping them take the criminal into custody, securing the area for a possible minion of his. Jane was sure there was more to it, but his mind was so fuzzy and confused. Was someone talking to him?

There was blood near Jane. Red John's.

"_Jane... please, wear a vest. For me."_

It all made sense now.

Jane didn't know if he should be happy or angry that for once, he _had _listened to her. His vision was getting blurrier, had he been shot? There was the metallic taste of blood on his mouth, and all of a sudden a salty taste felt stronger.

Adrenaline was leaving him, and so was his consciousness, once again.

Cinnamon… and watery green…

"_Lisbon…?"_

Jane's blue eyes closed.

.

.

.

* * *

Soo, what did you think? Was it a surprise or not?

Next up: _It didn't matter how much he rationalized it, Patrick Jane did not like to lose._


	2. Chapter 2

**Inner Nightmare**

_Second chapter._

**A/N: **This one was definitely harder to write! I wasn't planning on taking this long. (Though if you had read my stories in Spanish, you'd know a week was _quick_ for me…) Ahem. Thank you so much for the reviews, everyone! And to you MK, who I couldn't answer individually ;D

I want to give a big hug to my beta Yaba for being so honest and give me constructive criticism while still being supportive.

Again, dedicated to my (evil) England girls, Boutondor and Tromana : )

* * *

A part of him knew it was fair game. Lisbon had told him her intentions from the very beginning. They were as clear as his own willingness to fulfill his plans for revenge. She didn't break any promises; she didn't do anything she said she wouldn't.

He just couldn't believe she had succeeded in stopping him.

And as much as he wanted to ignore it, Jane couldn't stop wondering if Lisbon would still have shot him if he hadn't been wearing a vest. Considering the turn of events, if she hadn't shot his abdomen she might have inflicted a flesh wound, it was obvious to anyone that he wasn't used to physical pain and it would be effective to stop him. Clearly, he underestimated her.

Either way, never mind how it was rationalized, Patrick Jane did not like to lose.

.

.

"It's not what _I _want, Jane. It's the law. I've told you that."

It didn't matter that he was beyond bruised and had been annoying enough to be released from the hospital a few hours earlier than he was supposed to, and that he should be resting. Jane knew where Lisbon lived, and he wasn't letting her off the hook. He was angry, disappointed, hurt, shocked, all mixed into a big bewildering mess.

"Did you really think I would let you get away with killing someone? Think again." She took a sip of her coffee, her avoidance of eye contact betraying her determined tone.

He could tell she was hiding behind her words, her rehearsed speech, remaining as impassible as she could manage. Killing s_omeone,_ really? Anger was back full force. He stood up from her couch, getting closer to Lisbon, who was peering down into her coffee mug and leaning against the counter.

"You accuse _me_ of being selfish and yet _you_ did the most selfish thing you could do to me."

There was clear venom behind his words, almost becoming unaware of who he was talking to. Jane knew he'd hit a nerve, and as usual he was right, the rage was overpowering, even if he wasn't conscious of it. His words and his attitude were meant to cause a reaction in her, make her understand just how frustrated, empty and hurt he was. And all of it was triggered by her actions; the bullets she shot against his chest. It was all on her.

Somehow, he couldn't accept he had lost. And that _again_, he hadn't seen it coming.

The same blinding emotions didn't let him see her hand coming to connect with his cheek, eliciting a loud smacking sound.

"Snap out of it!" Her green eyes shined with anger, her brow furrowed. "Red John _is _getting the death penalty; he _is _going to die, just not by your hand."

It felt so weird to be reassuring someone by telling them a person –a twisted psychopath, but still a human being- was going to die. Lisbon wanted to be fair, wanted to stay detached, but when his words fully sank in, she snapped. The poison he injected into his tone was too much; things weren't that simple for her either, she was done being nice.

Jane had dropped the hand he had placed on his cheek in surprise, and stepped closer to say –scream something, but she didn't let him.

"His death is all that matters to you, isn't it? That's gonna be taken care of very shortly. You're just not used to being told _no._"

She knew how to strike a chord too.

At times, Lisbon could read him as well as he read her. In that moment, she knew exactly how surprised he was at her words. She should have felt guilty for it, but she didn't. She was sick of being supportive and understanding all the time when clearly he didn't feel like returning the favor. Didn't he want her to be completely honest, show him the _real deal_? Well, that's what he got. And she wasn't going to back down, not even when she rendered him speechless.

Lisbon had been so focused on convincing herself that her words were fair that she was completely caught off guard by Jane's next move.

Outraged, he grabbed one of her arms forcefully, and kissed her without warning.

Her favorite mug fell to the floor, as Jane pinned her against the counter. The blond wasn't gentle, wasn't sweet, wasn't slow. He deepened the kiss before she could react, teeth nipping at her lower lip, demanding a response from her. Suddenly Lisbon remembered why they broke up in the first place, and tried with all her might not to dwell on the taste of his lips; willing herself to suppress the familiar anticipation she felt at his touch. Her body had memorized how they needed each other so badly, and on occasion there wasn't enough time to be gentle, nor enough night to explore their lover's skin. The memories threatened to destroy all she worked so hard to leave behind.

She shoved him hard, away from her, and pushed him even harder when Jane tried to come close again.

"Get out."

He didn't move, short of breath, looking to the side.

"Now."

.

.

Jane wasn't at _his_ couch the next morning, nor the next day –or the next week for that matter. The team assumed he took a flight to Malibu, though no one said anything about it. They were smarter than that. Lisbon feigned ignorance; if she was good at something other than being a cop; it was avoiding things she didn't want to think about.

.

.

Twelve days had passed since Lisbon last saw _him_ and her nightmares returned. They weren't about her or blood anymore, she couldn't quite remember them when she woke up, but she knew they were about Jane. She tried calling, but there was no answer. So, when she woke up in the middle of Friday night with the recurring fear he might be dead (for the third time in a row), irrational or not, she decided it was enough: she was flying to Malibu on Saturday morning.

Finding Jane's house wasn't hard; the address was written on Red John's case file as well as Jane's record and it was fairly easy to locate. Getting inside the house proved more difficult though; he still wasn't answering his phone or the doorbell.

Feeling slightly like a felon, she forced a window open to enter.

.

.

When she found Jane, she almost wished she didn't.

After walking through empty rooms, gun in hand just in case, Lisbon found him in the backyard, in a little white terrace. No chairs, no table, just him sitting on the railing. He didn't acknowledge her presence; he was gone in his own little world, facing the sea. His shirt was wrinkled and dirty, so were his pants.

She remembered all his attempts to get close to Red John the following days of the serial killer's capture. All of them failed, thanks to everyone's awareness of the blonde's intentions. Jane looked so defeated now. It seemed like he hadn't showered in days, maybe hadn't eaten either, and definitely hadn't slept at all; the dark circles beneath his eyes proved as much.

Feeling totally out of place, Lisbon reached out and touched his upper arm. He didn't react.

"Jane," she tried shaking him a little when he didn't move. Nothing, he was still looking at the ocean, empty expression; acting like there was no one beside him. Chances were he really thought so.

.

.

_First day back in Malibu._

_Jane's daughter's headband never made it into the evidence bag. Staring at it and the smiley on the wall, made the murders feel like they had happened a day or week before. Logically, he knew it had been more than seven years since his life was ripped to shreds, but looking at the redness of the signature on the wall, he wasn't so sure anymore. _

_For the first time in years, he let his fingers trace the marking on the wall. In a twisted way, it was something that connected him to his deceased family, to the past he'd give anything to change. A link to the killer that took them away too, a murderer he had failed to catch, to kill. Before he knew what was happening, his eyes filled with tears, and he fisted even harder the stained headband._

_The tightening in his chest didn't let him scream as loud as he would have wanted, or kick the lonely mattress further away. _

_What was he supposed to do now…?_

.

.

Nightfall was there already, and Lisbon had been able to drag Jane inside the house just a few hours ago. They both sat on the floor, given that there wasn't a single chair or piece of furniture left in the house.

It wasn't much, but he was responding more to her. She assumed it was only natural; she was putting bandages on his bruised hands, his skin was cut all over the knuckles, with some dried blood caked around the sides. Having had her share of similar experiences, Lisbon knew very well how painful that was, besides he wasn't totally recovered from the older injuries either, the ones inflicted two weeks ago.

A part of which she had to cause.

She looked at him, sitting like a broken doll, and briefly thought of that night she said she would let Jane kill his nemesis. It hurt her to see him like this, but she didn't regret her decision. He could be as gone as he was now if he _had_ killed Red John, and on top of it, he would be in jail.

After Lisbon finished dressing his wounds, Jane stopped staring into nothingness and met her worried green orbs. His eyes were red and puffy, but he was definitely looking at _her_.

Lisbon was very strong, but only human.

Two feminine arms surrounded Jane's torso, his chin landing on her shoulder, her face nuzzling his neck out of habit. Those blue eyes that had held so much mischief less than a month ago, that were devoid of any emotion minutes prior, now seemed to say a secret in that brief contact, whispering a subtle message.. (Something that probably he didn't even know he was asking, something he didn't even know he wanted).

_Help me._

.

.

No one would ever know about the tears Lisbon shed while hugging Jane at his old beach house; when she realized what she had to do.

"_I'm so sorry…"_

.

.

A new day.

Why did it matter? For all he knew, days, weeks, months… maybe even years had passed by. It was always the same.

He had to admit though; he had been sleeping a lot better the last two days.

With a déjà-vu feeling, she let the woman in front of him say words he already knew.

"Patrick… my name is Sophie Miller. I'm here to help you get better."

.

.

.

* * *

There's a bittersweet epilogue coming. Don't curse me too much xD


	3. Chapter 3

**Inner nightmare**

_Epilogue._

**A/N: **We jumped a bit into the future for this chapter. Not that much though, between 10-12 months since last chapter's ending. So, here we are~ the end of this story! I hope you have enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. Don't be shy and share your thoughts ;D

Thank you so much once again Yaba! You're a wonderful beta :3

*Hugs Tromana and Boutondor* Love you girls!

* * *

.

Senior Agent and consultant met again at Red John's public execution, which took place at the prison. It wasn't something that often occurred, but the serial killer had murdered over forty women –that they knew of and a disturbing number of children. He was _famous_. Justice's victory over him was a big event and it had been really hard to keep the press outside. The families of the victims were notified, so they could choose if they wanted to attend. Undoubtedly, there were more than a few that desperately wanted closure.

Anxious people, even more so after they learned Red John's had been captured; waiting for a sentence, trying to trust the law system.

Even if it had been years since the incident, it had been so terrifying that the images of their beloved ones and their maimed bodies still haunted them in their dreams, when they closed their eyes, when they entered a dark room at night. Nobody knew they were secretly afraid of the dark again, just like when they were kids. Some of them snapped when someone got a bloody nose. Blood terrified most of them.

There was one man that had dedicated the last seven years of his life to pursuing the serial killer, so intent on killing him that it became the reason he got up every morning; the same reason that made him fall so hard to the ground when he wasn't able to. His blue eyes were focused on the scene in front of him through the glass. So concentrated, so lost in his thoughts, Jane didn't notice the crowd around him, for all he knew it was just him and Red John; but it wasn't. There were a lot of other people that were still grieving, still carrying anger and darkness inside of them, very much like him.

Everyone related to Red John still had unresolved issues that they just couldn't deal with most of the time, it was too painful. One year since Samuel Bosco was murdered, and a rather short woman in the room still couldn't think about it without feeling a lump in her throat.

But Lisbon couldn't keep avoiding the subject, this was _it_. She didn't realize Jane was there until she saw him standing by her side; disheveled hair, unshaven, fisting his hands so hard that his knuckles were white, his arms shaking and struggling to keep a straight face.

As if anyone was going to believe he was unaffected by this.

After the first time Lisbon visited him at the hospital, she was told it was better if she didn't, at least for a few months. Jane had reacted well to her when she was in the room, but relapsed when she left, taking precious progress away. And to think she had to force herself to go; she wanted to see him, but it broke her heart to see him so lost.

Regardless, Lisbon kept visiting from time to time, watching him through polarized glass, seeing how he was slowly improving. How he stopped drawing creepy smileys on the white walls of his room, and once or twice, when he attempted to smile.

She closed her eyes for a second, forcing the memories away. Without being able to help herself she glanced around discretely before gently letting her fingers touch his, until he released his tight hold, even if just a little. Lisbon was determined to break the contact once that was accomplished, but he anticipated her movements and caught her hand, squeezing it tightly.

Not letting go.

It was instinctive, her eyes went to his face, but his blue orbs were glued to the front, a tad more crystal-looking than usual. She returned her attention to where it was supposed to be, occasionally stealing a glance or two in his direction.

The lethal needle was inserted into Red John's arm; the man was handcuffed to a table with his wrists and feet securely fastened; surrounded by armed policeman and guards. But none of that mattered for those watching, it was tunnel-vision towards the prisoner. Endless seconds ticked by until he started having convulsions. All focus was on his grimacing face and how he managed something that pretended to be a smirk, akin to Dumar Tanner's final moments.

In the end, it was too much for Lisbon to witness; she closed her eyes, instinctively squeezing Jane's hand.

.

.

Red John was a reality no more.

How long ago? Seconds, minutes, hours? People had left, though neither the brunette nor the blond knew exactly when. Her throat had that annoying lump again, she was afraid that the moment she opened her eyes, she wouldn't be able to hold back the tears anymore.

Little did Lisbon know that the man beside her had finally slipped off his mask completely a few moments ago; when he was damn sure there was no one but them in the room. Jane broke down on the inside, silently; his nemesis was dead, but he didn't feel better.

A part of him knew he wouldn't. His beautiful wife and adorable daughter wouldn't be miraculously resurrected; he still wouldn't be able to see them ever again.

However, Red John's death had allowed some kind of unblocking of his mind, the images rushing through his consciousness were no longer those of his family's butchered bodies, or blood, or emotionless expressions. Instead, the images forever burned into his brain were the ones of his wife sitting beside him watching TV; his daughter making a sand castle; the way she pouted whenever she was denied dessert until after dinner…

Jane's fingers entwined with Lisbon's, waking her up from her own reverie. Automatically opening her eyes at the gesture, Lisbon felt something inside her break at the first sight of Jane's face. He was crying with such emotion showing in his now open and unfocused eyes that she couldn't tell if they were sad or happy tears.

She didn't know what to do, but couldn't stop her own vision from blurring. As much as she wanted to see him getting his much deserved relief, it felt like something private, an intimate moment she didn't have the right to be watching. Lisbon forced herself to look away.

.

.

A soft feminine sob beside him brought Jane back to the present. Lisbon was by his side, looking down, tears running down her cheeks. Their fingers were still entwined so he felt her slight shaking; his sight got even blurrier when she sobbed again, how fragile she sounded.

A gasp escaped from her lips, because he _did _know what to do.

He tugged at her hand and hugged her, his hands finding her upper back and tangling in her straight hair. She was too tired to try and fight him. She didn't want to, either. She'd been aching to hold him all this time, wanted to let him know he wasn't alone in this. Without really thinking, she returned his embrace.

Neither said a word, there was no need to. There was a connection, a silent understanding between them. His tears landed on her head, while hers on his suit.

Their sobs resonated on the big (now empty) room.

_It's going to be okay._

We_ will be okay._

_._

_._

_.  
_


End file.
